In Other News ...

I've heard that Pakistan is experiencing devastating flooding.

And, is it possible that more troops were killed in Afghanistan over the weekend? God I hope not.

I also believe someone mentioned that we're in for another slump in the housing market; wait? did the first one actually end?

Don't ask me. This past week, I've had a BIG old case of "the-world-revolves-around -me - head-in-the-sand-itis"

It's probably just me, but when receiving chemotherapy treatment, there are times when the only thing you can think about is yourself and the way you feel.

Definitely a bad strategy, because listen to me sister, you prolly ain't feeling so good.

So why dwell on it?

In my case, it's about all my damn feeble mind can do to think about the fact that food doesn't taste at all like it should and my beloved coffee stinks like something from the gutter; and don't you come near me with those cookies mister. And especially not that glass of wine.

But good Lord. I am hungry. So hungry. Let me just try some of that whatever it is. Maybe if I can just catch a satisfying taste of something, my stomach will feel satisfied and stop it's funky growling-nausea dance. No matter if it makes my mouth feel like I just swabbed an open sore with fresh squeezed lemon juice. I'll keep trying with the food until I get it right.

I shouldn't underestimate my my mental capabilities so much. There are other things I do think about. Like how cold it is on sixty-degree August night when you have very little hair on your head. I'm sure I probably look very sexy sleeping in a knit hat.

And I do spend an awful lot of time pondering the wonderment of my bowels. What on earth are they doing with all that food I'm ingesting? What exactly dear bowels, would be the precise combination of Colace and Milk of Magnesia to get things, ahem, moving? Without mimicking that torrential flooding in Pakistan, that is. Any indication at all, would be appreciated.

Then there is that wound on my right hand that causes nurses and oncologists alike to exclaim "ewww" when looking at it. What kind of comfort am I supposed to derive from the squeamish look that appears on their faces? You've determined it's only a spider bite - so suck it up. It's not that bad.

Yes, I spent way to much time over the weekend dwelling in my woes that really and truly aren't all that bad. It's just when you feel kind of sick and your energy is lower than a slug's ass, it's real easy to get all wrapped up in your own little pity party.

Thankfully, as silently as the insidious side effects begin to reappear, so they begin to disappear.

One morning, about a week after the infusion, you wake up to find the enemy has retreated ever so slightly. You notice that foods taste a little more like they should. That climb upstairs to your bedroom after your morning shower? It isn't like scaling K2 after all.

Then, even though you never really forgot, you remember all the amazing, helpful, kind and loving people in your life; surrounding you, banning together to hold that safety net beneath you. You revel in the joy and gratitude of receiving their cards in the mail and the delicious meals that have kept your family supped whilst you lift nary a finger.

And you remember, ever so thankfully, that not one of your loved ones is overseas fighting in a different, more ridiculous kind of war in which their survival is in jeopardy daily.

You remember too, that unlike so many others, you have a safe, warm home in which to sleep while wearing that "all gangsta" pink and white hat that grandma knit for the homeless.

And best of all, your children and their lives come back into focus. You notice all the great jokes they've told over the last week and how one of them sat in bed with you and played Gin Rummy until all hours.

Finally, you realize how patient they've been waiting for you to remember that sometimes the world actually does revolve around them and the very real fact that they are about to embark upon their own amazing milestones. In just a few short days, you consciously acknowledge (just in the nick of time I might add), that school will be starting and one will be a Senior while the other begins her first year in middle school.

Inevitably, gratefully, the focus will shift to other news.

Going, Going ... Not Quite Gone

I thought by now, I'd be able to write a "Who Loves Ya, Baby" post and pass out Tootsie Pops to honor the occasion of my impersonation of Kojak. Nope, not yet. I'm a little premature, turns out this hair loss process is a lot slower than I thought.

Though I've shed clumps upon copious clumps of hair, I'm still not bald. Make no mistake, things are thin up top; so much so, my shadow looks different.

But like the oil spill in the gulf, the hair just keeps coming out with no end in sight. And like the oil, I had no idea there was so of it! (Note to self: add "good hair" to gratitude list).

I guess I'm in transition. As my niece so wisely pointed out - "hair in transition is never a good thing." She is right, right, right about that; so these days, you'll find me sporting a couple of chic little hats I picked up at where else? Target.

Update: Above entry was written 3 weeks ago, when the oil in the gulf was still flowing and the plug theories seemed to be a joke. The following is from my thoughts today, August 22nd; a few things have changed:

For the past few weeks I've been watching the natural part-line in my hair grow wider and wider. I think it's measuring at about an inch wide; almost qualifying me to join the "comb-over" club. Anybody got some Brill Cream they can loan me?

Strangely, the length on the sides is about the same as it was before the hair loss began: below the ears. Thin, very thin, but still on the long-ish side. Pair that with my pale skin and I've got a look that has "cancer poster child" written all over it.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided it was time to take charge of the situation and tell Chemotherapy who is in charge here. "Buzz cut for Bon," says I.

Mr. Bon promptly retrieved the clippers from the linen closet. Yeah, we're cool like that - we definitely have the same kind of electric shears they use at Rudy's. We even have the sweet smock to keep the hair from getting all up in your clothes.

Then it was time to decide the length. Were we going drastic and cut with the #1 fence attached - or keep it on the longer (it's all relative) side, with the #4 fence in place?

In the end, conservatism won out and I chose a #4. With our daughter right by his side helping with clean-up, Mr. Bon shaved me right down to an almost stylish nappy little cut. It feels great; I can hardly keep my hands from touching it. And, it doesn't look too bad either.

Surprisingly, I look about 46 years younger. No kidding. As my family will confirm, when I was a wee pup, my short, blond toddler hair stood straight up on end. Even though it is very, very short today, you can see that tendency is still there. And somehow my brown hair has given way to blond roots. I mean, I think those roots are blond. Surely, they're not gray ... right?

Now for the cute part. Did I ever mention to you that I'm actually married to a Saint? I only call him Mr. Bon here because he is so humble. Trust me, his real name is Saint Jim. I'll explain the reasons why later. Yesterday was just another demonstration of the countless acts of kindness, love, support and sweetness he has shown me in our 28 years together.

As soon as I stepped out of our makeshift barber's chair, in hops my man! "Number Four" says he. So daughter and I commenced the shaving ... right down to the wee bits. And of course, he looks freaking cute in his #4. What a man ... getting the buzz cut whilst in the midst of a job search (note to Universe: that last line was for you - Mr. Bon is still attracting job offers - hoping for your help here - in a big, generous way -thank you kindly).

When I woke up this morning and looked toward the other side of the bed, I saw not only my husband of 25 years, but now a man who dares to be "my hair twin."

I had to ask myself:

"Who loves you, baby?"

Week 4 Update

According to the handy treatment calendar I received from the nurse last week, tomorrow is my "Week 4 Treatment."

This is a mostly welcome event.

I welcome each treatment because, of course, they are part of the game-plan that get's me one step closer to getting the"cured" stamp stamped across my ever-fattening medical file. I welcome and respect (odd word choice, I kno, but when you are going toe to toe with a 6'8" bully you better show some respect) the chemotherapy, because it is after all, my friend (with friends like chemo, who needs...) and it is here to help. I welcome the fact that it is Week 4 (already!) and things are moving along at a rapid clip.

I don't welcome the fact that tomorrow will be the infusion of Taxotere and Carboplatin; two substances, er "friends," so vile that one is advised to wash clothing not only separately, but twice, should any bodily fluids end up on your clothes in the 72 hours following the treatment.

I can only imagine what's happening inside my body.

Actually - I'm avoiding that kind of visualization and focusing on positive and restorative healing thoughts; lots of beautiful images floating around in my head these days. Rather, much time is spent dwelling in the gratitude of all the blessings, abundance and delicious meals that have come my way.

So far, positivity is working. Up to this point nothing has been horrific; not a walk in the park mind you, but all very manageable.